


Trouble Breathing

by sweptaway



Category: American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong
Genre: Also heads up for ptsd speak because tunny's going through it, Gen, UNLESS it's for these very specific fucks, also tunny uses some not nice language for himself, and in denial of their disabilities, and warnings are always nice so just !! heads up for that, because apparently tunny can't feel hope ever, he's not doing well with being essentially forced to come to terms with his health, mentions of johnny and eg(lacey!!) and heather(tunny's cousin), not the r word he's not that horrible but, the title is like the alkaline trio song bc fuck parpar!!, they're also not brothers by blood but that's probably better for the both of them, tunny's bipolar will's autistic and they're brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 18:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21103739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweptaway/pseuds/sweptaway
Summary: tunny's an idiot and doesn't know what coping or hope is unless will's there. Apparently.





	Trouble Breathing

He was used to feeling numb. If he had to pick something more familiar than the feeling of feeling nothing, he'd have a new topic to struggle with.

What he wasn't used to was the numb followed by some out of body, sinking feeling. Feeling nothing, he could handle. Feeling like he was taken out of himself, feeling completely helpless to the universe when physically, you're fine, physically, you're there is new.

A week home.

There are gunshots and he doesn't know where they're coming from. He can't move, and they're everywhere. Even if he were able to move, they'd follow him. It felt inescapable -- the strained loudness of it all, that same far off feeling, the guns, the screaming, the tightness in his chest.

He tried to help. He _tried_ to help. He'd caused enough hurt just by being here, by leaving his friends, by agreeing to kill people. People who could be innocent, who could be like him. He never wanted to kill anyone. Why is he here? _Why_ is he here? He hadn't killed anyone yet, had hardly shot a gun. He thought he'd be strong enough to do that, to _at least_ do that right. If he’s been so terrible for so long, what difference does murder make? It was his first time out into a proper battlefield, and it drove him crazy how quiet it had been. The sitting, the waiting, how loud every breath sounded, or how heavy it felt. He can't remember if he felt anything then. He can't remember if mentally he was even there.

He just remembers how deafening the silence was. How it left plenty of time to think on every single thing he'd been avoiding. Up until now, it was mostly training and he'd be exhausted by the end of the night, he'd fall asleep. Here, it was on edge. You couldn't move without feeling off about it. There's supposed to be adrenaline, that’s suppose to _help_, but the only sense that's reasonable is dread.

All he can fucking do is think. Think about how he got here. Think about what he left behind, _who_ he left behind. And who does he think he is anyway? He's been strong enough to support Johnny, or to support Will, or even his fucking cousin, how he could up until now. What gave out now? He couldn't take a month of city life? He just wanted to feel something again. He wanted to feel alive.

He's dead.

He is _dead_.

Physically, he's there, but nothing else could seem to catch up.

He wanted to help. Everything else has gone wrong because of him, he wanted to help.

He remembers going blank. 

There was water pouring on his hands. He knows it’s water, it’s as simple as that. But his entire body tenses up at the memory of blood -- other peoples’, his own.

“Tunny,”

It stained his thoughts worse than his skin. And though he wasn’t moving, it felt like it wouldn’t matter anyway, nothing he could do would force that out of his head, or off of his hands. That feeling would never go away.

The water stopped running and he blinked, readjusting his eyes to something real in front of him. The wall, the sink, the overfilled glass in his hand.

He hadn't realized where he was or what was happening until Will came into focus. Tunny could analyze now, as he came back into consciousness, some of the situation. He still wasn't there entirely, but he was there enough to see that Will was awake, retracting his hand after turning the tap off, his eyes so heavy on Tunny that they burned him. It was only concern, some curiosity, but there was a thin line between concern and judgment, and Tunny hated how difficult that differentiation had become.

But this is Will.

Will is good. Regardless of the anger this year has set up, Will is good.

“You okay?”

Tunny only nodded, setting the glass down, wiping his hand on his pants, quietly thanking Will as he reached back for the crutch that was set against the counter. He’s working on not needing it, he hates dragging it around, he hates how visible it all is. He left the apology ambiguous, but in specific he had meant for shutting the water off. There was a second he looked down to his now damp hand, expecting the water to be thick and red and unbearable. But the water on his hand was still clear, and he was still acting like a psycho.   
Quietly cursing to himself, he considered using a paper towel to dry it, but gave up his search a millisecond into the task and wiped his hand off on his shirt.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Will spoke up. How odd it was to hear him almost trying to make conversation. Tunny was tired, he didn’t mean to come off as a scrooge, but it was surprising nonetheless.

However the comment,

Tunny had no idea how to respond. He didn’t even believe in ghosts, and yet he felt like the idea of death haunted him regardless. Maybe it’d be nicer if he believed in ghosts.   
Wherever his state of mind is going, he stops it dead in its tracks. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” He says to the man he’s never held to the status of a good sleep track. Still, he wants a subject change.

“Yeah,” Will responds. “Aren’t _you_?” It’s accusatory, but joking. It feels familiar and safe, and Tunny almost smiles. “No, but .. That’s why I have this,” he swayed the hand by his stomach, pointing out the bottle of beer he held, and now swung. “Helps.”

“It _helps_?” Tunny asks, and his question is met with a confident nod. It’s bothersome how regular that seems to be for Will. Insomnia, nightmares, have plagued him for years, Tunny knows this, but seeing this method of coping is unsettling. Even more so how Will seems to see nothing wrong in it, but instead changes subjects again, leaning himself against the counter. It was easier to see now that at least that bottle was unopened, and the smallest of relief came from that.

“It’s like 4 AM,” he pointed out. “Nurse not tire you out?”

The connotations behind that went straight over Will’s head, which was obvious by how casual it was delivered, no playful grin to it, not even a tired elbow nudge to Tunny’s side. His blindness to the situation made it easier to chuckle off the fluster, and Tunny shook his head.

“I tried to sleep,”   
Which is honest.   
“I just couldn’t sleep. Wanted, y’know, some water.”   
Less honest. He couldn’t even remember coming out here in the first place.

“Your hand was thirsty?”

“Yeah, apparently,” Tunny nods now, trying to play at some kind of grin, thought it felt weighted. “It’s telling me I needed a wash,” Following suit with Will, he props himself against the counter, setting his head on his shelves and closing his eyes. “Or maybe a shower.”

“You smell fine, you’re dramatic.”   
And that silence sets in again, not necessarily uncomfortable, but there. Admittedly, it was nice just to be around Will again.

And Tunny would say that he was joking, but it wasn’t fully necessary here. Will seemed so determined.

“How do you do that?”

“Huh?”

“The leg, how .. do you shower with it? Like, with it on? Or—“

“Oh,” Tunny opened his eyes, and he would have laughed if he didn’t hate the prosthetic for existing, didn’t hate needing it at all. “No, I don’t .. I don’t even _shower_ really, it’s all bath, I don’t wear .. _it_ in .. Really, I’m not supposed to be sleeping with it on either.” He looked down to his hands, picking at the skin around his nails, mostly just to have something else to focus on. “I was never good at listening, I guess.”

“You were gonna sleep in it?”

His question is met with a nod. He wouldn’t say it, but that in itself was conflicting. He hated feeling nothing _there_. Lacey says she won’t care, says she would really prefer him to sleep without it so he didn’t risk hurting himself. But he’s scared to be seen as any more different. Then, he hates the metal. He hates feeling it there in a different way than what used to be there. It’s cold, it’s not real, it’s just a somewhat less gruesome reminder of what happened. But, it worked better as punishment for himself. He thought he at least deserved some here.

After everything, to have any comfort at all felt surreal. To be let into Will’s apartment after almost a year of abandoning him, abandoning Johnny and Heather and whoever fucking else he let down, he didn’t deserve to be here in the first place. He’s an intruder now, he’s just gonna leave again. He doesn’t want to— God, swear on his mother’s fucking grave, he _doesn't _want to, but he always seems to aim in that direction when something goes wrong. It’s only a matter of time before he disappoints again.

“You’re doing it again,” Will points out, that bluntness that feels like being physically shaken out of his head.

Still, Tunny acts oblivious. “Doing what?”

And Will goes quiet, fiddling with the label on the bottle he holds. It’s obvious he wants to say something, but perhaps doesn’t want to state it, make anything more obvious.

Tunny _despises_ how heavy the air’s gotten lately. He hates the obvious hurt, the distrust, the distance. He can’t say the word, can’t say how he sees Will, because it hurts, because he’s broken things so severely that it’s better leaving things alone. There’s no brother, no family, and it’s what Tunny deserves after what he pulled.

Apparently, Will can see through Tunny’s entire brain. He sets the bottle down, tugs at Tunny’s sleeve to direct him elsewhere. No hand holding was fine, it was a rare occasion for Will to reach for that anyway.

He hated, too, how heavy every movement felt. Like he had to force himself to move like a proper human being.

They reached the couch, Will folded his legs underneath himself and tugged Tunny beside him. “You shouldn’t be standing either. You look like you’ll pass out.”

“I can stand, it’s —“

“I want you to sit.” It was so sure and firm that it surprised Will himself, and he went quiet again, pressing his fingers together as he sat. Tunny wanted to stay, he needed his company, he didn’t know why he bothered arguing. Does he deserve the company? That kindness?

“Is it regular?”

This time, Tunny genuinely has no idea what he’s alluding to.

“Those ..” Will gestures around vaguely and gives up, rubbing the palms of his hands against his knees. “Like .. you .. when you don’t look .. there.”

Tunny knows how difficult it can be for Will to register emotions, so the fact that he points out almost a lack of them is alarming. Is it that obvious? He almost wants to lie. To say no, that’s not it, he’s just tired, but what good would that do? Separate them further, confuse Will more in how well he recognizes things? He scratches at his head, perhaps a bit roughly. “It’s not entirely a regular thing. Mostly just ..”

And the idea of bringing up childhood, how he would feel out of himself but not like this, was terrifying, that etching of his mental health, now halfway to being diagnosed, was hard to fathom. He didn’t know if he wanted that out to anyone, even himself, so soon.

And there were curiosities, obviously hanging in the air on Will’s end. It’s reasonable, Tunny knows it’s reasonable, even if Will is to spur on any conversation about what’s being thought. And in quite honesty, maybe it’s for the better Will gives up on the idea of how strong Tunny is. If he knew where his mind went so constantly, if he knew how much he fucked up. But to let him down like that .. He couldn’t do that. Will needs Tunny, and Tunny needs Will. It’s some ridiculous circle they make that he’s sure neither of them even understand to the fullest extent. Because it’s terrifying.

Tunny’s relationship with family, or anything close, has been rough. They were good, his parents tried their hardest, it was _Tunny_ who shut it off until it was too late. It’s him disappointing who he’s supposed to make proud. He doesn’t want to fuck up this time, not this badly. But he feels like he can’t stop it.

And Will’s relationship towards family, God — Tunny didn’t know the half of it, really, he didn’t. But he knew it wasn’t pleasant, or fair. He knows he needs to have someone to lean on, and Tunny needs that person to be strong for. Will’s so used to being bigger than he should, he needs the ability to just ..

To _not_ do that.

But the conversation is going to come one day. One day that light is going to dim, and it’ll be obviously just how weak Tunny is. How that lightbulb hasn’t shattered already is amazing. With all the disappointment and anger and broken trust.

He doesn’t want to talk.

Tunny does not want this conversation right now.

He tightens his fist as he feels something slam into his shoulder, and when he opens his eyes he realizes this is normal. Will’s shoulder, his head shoved against Tunny’s, and he laid like that, with his weight against him. No talking yet, it was just this.

And Tunny could breathe a second.

This was good, it was comfortable and it was a small reminder of being home. What really pushed forward the idea of, maybe, peace was how this was the first proper time Will butted against him since Tunny came home. So when it states that he could breathe, it was nearly a gasp of whatever relief. He’s still here. Will’s still here.

And he tried to relax, to genuinely calm himself down from whatever paranoia from earlier. Leans into Will, just a bit, not entirely, as if he’s worried he would hurt him.

“You’re being a pussy.”

Tunny furrowed his brow, pulled his head up and off of Will’s to give him a look. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Will moves himself, this time wraps his arm around Tunny’s and pulls him more in. It’s not a hug, but it’s Will’s way of those big words, those “ I love you “ ones, what they’ve both gotten accustomed to. And it was good this way. It was good any way. He’s quiet again, just sitting and holding onto his friend. Is it awkward? It could be, maybe, if either of them gave it a second of thought.

But they wouldn’t. Or at least, Tunny wouldn’t.

Instead, the silence is comforting again. It’s not deafening, it’s just there. He has a bit of himself back, and more of Will back too. It even made it easier to smile a bit, really ease up and put more weight in. He missed Will, so desperately. He needed him around and here, he was stupid and made that decision to separate, and it came so close to killing them. It wasn’t worth it. This, _staying_, is worth it. The comfortable warmth that settles in. Things are okay. For this very moment, they’re okay, and Tunny’s brother is right here and safe.

Even if the thought of calling him that is horrifying, it’s real, it’s honest, and he can’t hide from it.

“Are you gonna sleep anytime soon?” Tunny asks now, wanting to reach for more of a decent hold, but being too afraid to cross that line. He just wanted to prove he wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t want to, he won’t.

Will doesn’t respond, instead just reaches for Tunny’s hand, focuses and draws on the lines on his palm with his thumb, that feeling almost tickling skin, which was a very surprising feeling. Tunny laughed under his breath, not from it tickling, more from amusement or relief, and nudged Will with his shoulder, who then put more effort into fiddling with Tunny’s fingers, inaudible calling Tunny lame.

The silence sets in again, and Tunny wishes he could guarantee that Will wouldn’t reach for the alcohol again. That he’d leave the bottle down and try to rest on his own free will. The fact that the drinking had spiraled to this point now, the fact that it was Tunny and Johnny leaving that had caused it, it was heart wrenching. He did not miss that feeling.

There’s something clearly on Will’s mind, his eyes watch off into the dim darkness of the living room, clearly trying to find sight of anything distracting. And it’s almost worrying, as it’s fair knowledge of how Will’s mindset goes, how dark it can go so quickly. Tunny moves his hand enough to draw attention back to that. He wish he knew how to pull those thoughts out of Will’s head, even just for a second.

But right now it’s raw. Tunny bites his cheek, only stopping when the pain makes him wince. Will grips his hand a bit tighter, and that’s almost shocking too.

“Are _you_ okay?” Tunny finally asks.

The response is met with Will verging tears, his voice shaking from the effort it takes not to cry. And there’s no idea for why he’s reached this point so quickly, maybe just being home again, having an old friend return after betrayal, to try and let that back in.

“I just really don’t like seeing you like that.”

As bad as it could come off, Tunny knows what he’s referencing. The blacking out, dazing off, the _episodes_, of whatever they’re stemmed from. But there’s fear in Will’s voice too that’s almost unplaceable. Almost. Of course there’s that knowledge prodding into Tunny’s head, of how Will knew of him enlisting, knew of the war, knew of him getting shot.

He hated to fictionalize why Will might be so scared. It was staring him in the face, that he thought Tunny was dead, and yet Tunny himself was afraid to face that.

“I’m okay,”

“But what if you weren’t?” Will almost snapped, and though his voice was more raised, more stern, it was obvious it was out of fear fed anger. The absolute worst kind of anger. And for that moment, Tunny placed aside his personal dilemma, it was too painful to watch how Will curled in on himself. How he removed his grip from Tunny, instead holding his hands to his face, covering his eyes as he cried, bringing his feet out from under him so his knees touch his chest.

Will repeats what he said, only quieter, nearly rocking himself. Broken bits of “if you weren’t” stuck into Tunny’s mind. In that moment, it’s ridiculous to look back, to think how desperate he was for death, for the thought of everything crashing in at once, at the second he was shot.

Because he hurt too many people. Strangers, friends, family. He hurt himself. He wanted the hurt to stop.

But he couldn’t give life up. The longer he was kept alive, nursed back to even the concept of health, the more it became obvious that he _needed_ to be alive, regardless of his want for it. He needed to be.

And now, in the present — as he gave up the fear and pulled his arms around Will, who near instantly reacted and loosened up and tugged Tunny closer, fists balling in his shirt, his crying more obvious and loud and heartbreaking — he maybe even wanted to be alive. To keep his brother strong enough to carry on.

For Will. For Johnny. For Lacey.

Tunny _wanted_ to keep this fight up. Of life, he guesses.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, pressing a kiss on Will’s forehead as his arms were pulled around his neck, bringing himself halfway to Tunny’s lap. He wouldn’t say it was okay, he knows it’s not. He’d only tighten his embrace around Will, keep his hold tight as he can without breaking a rib for either of them, let the feeling of Will’s hands fisting into the back of Tunny’s shirt ground him, listen to every stumble of breath and hiccup and sob as the panic came down.

It was almost impossible to stop himself from crying too. He didn’t want to say he missed this specific situation, but he missed this closeness. He missed the touch, the voice, the safety here. He missed how Will let his guard down, let himself be held, and curl up into Tunny’s lap like a house cat. He missed feeling safe, and providing that too.

Tunny took a deep breath, which was much shakier than he would’ve liked, and laid his head somewhat against Will’s — which was quite easy, as it was tucked in against his neck.

“You can’t go anywhere tonight, alright?” It was the most stable words that Will could manage in the moment, and he mumbled this while still hiding his face.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“You can’t tell Johnny.” He didn’t say specifically what, but he said this almost jokingly, sniffling after he spoke.

“Will you kill me if I do?”

Will tightened his grip on Tunny, then taking a breath so deep that it moves his body. “No,” he whispered, loosening his grip when Tunny - the moron - traced circles against Will’s back.

Like what? He wanted him to relax?

“I’ll just make you wish I had killed you.”

Vague threats, Tunny smiled and kissed his head again, only more to the top of his hair.

Yeah, that’s the home he missed.


End file.
